


All Up the Sleeve

by coricomile



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Quidditch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I-" Sidney starts. He picks at his chapped lips and Zhenya rushes to the nightstand to grab the glass of tepid water there. He holds it while Sidney takes careful sips, free hand hovering behind Sidney's head. "I don't have magic."</p><p>Zhenya blinks at him. </p><p>"Of course have magic," he eventually says. Sidney shakes his head and groans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Up the Sleeve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youfeelshame (pluckydame)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluckydame/gifts).



> This was writtrn for the 2016 Sid/Geno Exchange, as a gift to to youfeelshame, who requested a magic AU. I hope this is something you enjoy! I've long wanted the story of Sidney Crosby, Quidditch Superstar. This... is not quite that, but close enough. Thank you to rinawrites for the beta.

Sidney is the strangest creature Zhenya has ever met. Zhenya stares down at him from his spot over the practice pitch, leaned back on the handle of his broom, and sighs as Sidney runs Flower through the wringer. Again. He does a lazy lap of the pitch, closing his eyes and letting the breeze cool his sweaty face. He can smell rain coming, thick with the warning scent of ozone. It's been awhile since they've done bad weather drills and Zhenya's hoping that Sidney doesn't notice. 

"He's crazy," Knighter says as she floats by. She's cradling a snitch in her cupped hands, its little silver wings brushing against her palms gently. The only time Zhenya had held a snitch he'd nearly crushed the tiny thing by mistake. Sidney had chewed him out about it for days. Damaging one is the ultimate bad luck. 

Sully blows the whistle and they fly down, hovering over the grass in a lazy circle. Sidney gives Sully his attention, but Zhenya can still see the little sparks going off in his brain as he tries to pick apart the saves Flower had gotten on him. Zhenya flicks his wand inside his wrist guard and tugs at Sidney's hair. Sidney startles, nearly toppling off his broom. Sully doesn't look impressed. 

"Match tomorrow," he says, the voice amplification charm still active on his throat nearly deafening Zhenya, who's standing too close. "Eat well, sleep well, and meet at the floo point at nine o'clock sharp. And when I say nine o'clock, I mean _nine o'clock_. Do you understand, Geno?" Zhenya sighs but nods. His alarm charms have always been poor, but even Sidney's triple strength jinx hasn't done well enough to wake Zhenya up when he's tired. He can't help it. 

They file back into the locker room, shedding robes and tucking their brooms away. Zhenya isn't surprised at all when Sidney steals him away for dinner. Zhenya is the only one who can put up with his finicky cooking. It's awful, but Zhenya likes the company. 

\---

The Finches play hard. Beagle has been a thorn in Zhenya's side all game, jamming his broom against Zhenya's and smacking at his hands. He gets called for cobbing a few times, which enrages him. He can't move enough to get leeway on the quaffle. It's not his fault that his elbow keeps going into Beagle's face. 

He scores three times, his throws soaring past Nuevirth beautifully. He nearly loses his wand inside his robes twice, his wrist guard sliding over his sweat slick skin, and misses a pass as he scrambles to fix it. In Russia he hadn't been required to have it on him, and even though it's been years, he still hasn't gotten the hang of keeping it safe. 

There's a flash of gold as the snitch flies past, and then the yellow blur of Taylor's robes as she rushes after it. Zhenya doubles his efforts towards the quaffle. Tanger smashes a bludger past Zhenya's head, into Backstrom's chest, and Zhenya catches the quaffle as it flies up. He races towards the Finches' end and passes to Sidney. 

Sidney carries it into the scoring zone and stands on his broom, feet planted on the handle. Zhenya has seen him do a Dionysis dive a hundred times before. The quaffle is going to go in. There's no question about it. He hovers outside of the scoring zone, eyes on the quaffle in Sidney's hands. He just barely sees Steckel zooming in from the side. Sidney doesn't see him at all. They collide, the quaffle soaring through the air into Ovechkin's hands.

Sidney goes down hard, his broom shooting out from under him. Zhenya flies toward him at top speed, but he's not fast enough to catch him. There's a terrible cracking sound as Sidney hits the ground, loud over the sounds of the crowd. Zhenya rolls off his broom before he touches the ground, shaking his wand out of his wrist guard and summoning up every healing spell his mother ever taught him. 

Before he can start, the training staff and mediwizards brush him aside, into Taylor who is already openly weeping. Zhenya gathers her into his arms, shields her face as the head mediwizard levitates Sidney onto a stretcher. Sidney doesn't move. 

The referees give them ten minutes to suit Beau up before they restart the game. Zhenya loves quidditch, but the rules are stupid and he knows that Sidney would hex him seven ways to Sunday if Zhenya disqualified them from the win by leaving the pitch. Beside him, Taylor straightens her shoulders and wipes her eyes. 

They'll win this for Sidney. 

\---

The game lasts for three days. Three brutal, freezing days that Zhenya fights through. He's put the quaffle through the hoops more times than he can count, but with each hour Taylor flies just that little bit slower, and the snitch is never quite in reach. 

They take their allotted breaks and nap in a heap in the dressing rooms, waking to caffeine draughts and dense, calorie rich danishes that leave Zhenya's stomach feeling heavy. Flower nearly falls off his own broom when a bludger flies too close to his head, swearing loud enough that the announcer is forced to censor him. 

Zhenya almost doesn't realize when they win. He's so focused on the quaffle, zooming through the air past Tanger, his eyes nearly crossed. Every inch of his body aches, but he presses through it. It's only when he hears his team cheering that he even realizes that play has stopped around them. 

Their celebration is short and subdued. Sully updates them on Sidney's progress and tells the group that just played that they're sitting the next two games out to rest up. Usually, Zhenya hates sitting out, even when he knows it's for the best, but even the idea of getting back on his broom makes him want to vomit. 

Everyone apparates to Sidney's house as soon as the journalists and their nasty, gossipy quills vacate the dressing room. Zhenya hangs back with Taylor as the team goes into Sidney's room in small groups. They all speak softly and come out looking weary and worn down. When everyone else has left, Zhenya and Taylor go in together. 

Sid's entire right side is nearly black, his ribs wrapped up tight with gauze and his arm in a loose sling. The familiar smell of Skele-Gro fills the room. Sidney twitches a little as it does what it's supposed to. 

"Hey," he rasps. His head has been bandaged as well, and Zhenya aches to kill Steckel with his bare hands. 

Taylor sits carefully on the edge of Sidney's bed and takes one of Sidney's hands between her own. He looks so pale, so tired. Zhenya stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying to find words. 

"They said I'm out for at least five days," Sidney says. He winces as a joint clicks back into place and Taylor smoothes a hand over his damp forehead. "But I'm okay. I am."

Taylor cries a little, even as Zhenya tells Sidney all about the rest of the match. Sidney congratulates Taylor excitedly, wincing when he upsets his ribs. Eventually, he coaxes Taylor to the guest room to floo their parents. Zhenya stays, shifting uncomfortably in the middle of the room. 

"I-" Sidney starts. He picks at his chapped lips and Zhenya rushes to the nightstand to grab the glass of tepid water there. He holds it while Sidney takes careful sips, free hand hovering behind Sidney's head. "I don't have magic."

Zhenya blinks at him. 

"Of course have magic," he eventually says. Sidney shakes his head and groans. Zhenya tuts at him and helps settle him back down onto the pillows. 

"I can't- it's not there," Sidney says. He gropes for his wand on the side table and gives it a flick. Nothing happens. 

"Maybe it break when you fall," Zhenya says. The wand doesn't look cracked, the smooth gray of the elder wood even all the way across, but Sidney's wand has always been fickle at best. Zhenya pulls his own wand from his pocket and hands it over. His is less pretty, the rowan crooked and nicked along the sides, but it's served him well over the years. Sidney takes it carefully and Zhenya waves an impatient hand at him. "Try."

"Accio water," Sidney says, flicking Zhenya's wand at the glass still in Zhenya's hand. They both stare at the glass, but it doesn't even tug against Zhenya's palm. Sidney slumps into the bed, looking small and tired. Zhenya takes his wand back and tucks it into his pocket. 

"You tired," Zhenya says. He adjusts Sidney's blankets around him carefully, ignoring Sidney's weak fidgeting. "Magic hard when tired. Sleep. Try again tomorrow."

"Yeah," Sidney says, the doubt in his voice heavy. "Night, G."

"Night."

\---

Sidney's magic doesn't come back in the morning. It doesn't come back after he's given the all clear by the team mediwizard, or when he goes back to Ilvermorny to consult with his old professors. The team very carefully doesn't say anything about it when he's around, but Zhenya can see the worry wearing on all of them. 

The press has noticed, no matter how hard the Stormers' PR team fights it. Zhenya reads article after article speculating about Sidney's absence. No one has guessed the actual reason, which he can only be grateful for, but some of the nastier papers have begun accusing him of cowardice. Zhenya banishes those ones. Sidney is many things, but he's not a coward. 

The team plays on. Sidney sits in the stands with his family, hat pulled low and face drawn, but he doesn't miss a single match. Zhenya plays harder, works himself until he feels faint with it, but he's not Sidney. None of them are. 

\---

"I miss flying," Sidney says, poking at the eggs on his plate. Professor Trevotizea has come and gone, his daily tutoring bumped up to twice a day. Sidney's wand sits at his side, as elegant as ever, but still refuses to produce so much as a spark. "I don't care if I ever charm anything ever again, but flying-" Sidney shakes his head. Zhenya's chest aches for him. 

"We go flying," he says. He waves his fork at Sidney's plate, still woefully full. "Finish breakfast, then we go."

"What part of missing magic did you not understand?" Sidney asks, voice raised. He winces and slumps back into his chair. "Sorry."

"Don't be dumb," Zhenya says. "You ride with me. Finish breakfast." Sidney still gives him a suspicious look, but he finishes his eggs and toast without comment. 

Zhenya hasn't ridden with a partner in years. He summons his Comet, sturdier than the Firebolts they use for matches, and swings his leg over the handle. Sidney stares at it, head cocked, before sliding in behind Zhenya. It's a tight fit, Sidney's chest pressed firmly to Zhenya's back, and it takes Zhenya a moment to find the right balance to take off, but once they're in the air everything falls away. 

Zhenya has been flying for almost as long as he could balance on a broom. He'd spent long afternoons learning from his father, soaring through the bleak skies over Magnitogorsk until his mother called them in for dinner. The first time he'd flown solo, he'd felt like the world had opened for him. In the sky, he was weightless, tied to nothing and no one, able to go wherever he wanted. When he'd found quidditch, it had been like coming home. He'd known, ten years old in his too-big robes, what he'd been made for. 

Sidney had come in late. Born to non-magical parents, sent to Ilvermorny at twelve. Zhenya had read the stories as they'd appeared in his room, learned all about the little boy that took the Academy of Broom Flying by storm before leaving it behind. His name popped up everywhere, charmed photographs showing the progression of him from awkward child to full grown man still in the halls of Ilvermorny and the flying school. 

Quidditch is Zhenya's home, but it's Sidney's world.

Zhenya flies them around Stonewall. A few people wave at them and Zhenya waves back. Canada will never be Russia, but he's come to love the people and the frisson of cool, clean magic in the air. When the team splits apart to play for their own National Cups, Zhenya thinks he'll miss it a little. 

They fly until Sidney's stomach rumbles. The sky has gone gray, more rain on the way, and they probably should have gone in hours ago, but Sidney's happier than he has been in weeks and Zhenya doesn't want to take that away from him. They're both wobbly when they dismount, stumbling across the grass together. Sidney is pink cheeked and windswept, his hair wild around his face. He grins and for a moment, Zhenya wants to hug him close. 

"Thanks," Sidney says, scrubbing his hands over his hair in a failed attempt to tame it. "Do you think… can we do it again sometime?" Zhenya whacks him with the bristles of his broom and grins. 

"Yes, we do again," he says. "Go eat."

"Your thing about feeding me is really weird," Sidney says. Zhenya laughs until his stomach hurts. 

" _You_ weird. Go eat. Food help get better." He wants to make a joke about Sidney flying under his own power again, wants to tease Sidney about buddy riding like kids, but he bites the words back. Sidney shakes his head but goes into his house without another word. Zhenya flies home, his face sore from the rush of wind, and floos one of his own old professors. 

Zhernakov has no answers, just like everyone else has no answers, and Zhenya wonders for the first time if Sidney's magic really is gone for good.

\---

They play the Meteorites at the beginning of May. Sidney sits in the stands with the rest of the team, his broom held in his hands even though he's not dressed in his team robes. The press still hasn't caught on to why he's been sitting out, and Zhenya's glad for it. Sidney's eyes are tight, his smile forced, but every time the quaffle goes in, he cheers louder than anyone else in the stands. 

Zhenya's out this game, a rest period for the next match, and he watches closely as Knighter feints around Seabrook. Keith lobs a bludger her way and only luck and bloodymindedness keeps her on her broom. He hasn't seen the snitch since the game started, but Sidney keeps pointing it out to him at intervals. 

"Why you not play seeker?" Zhenya asks. Sidney's an amazing chaser, but he's got the eyes of a seeker. Zhenya doesn't know how to do it. He's tried, but his brain is so focused on the quaffle that it always slips him. Sidney laughs. 

"Too big," he says over the roar of the crowd. Tanger's just clobbered Toews and forced a turnover. Zhenya raises an eyebrow and Sidney taps his shin with the end of his broom. "Shut up. I'm not as quick as Knighter or Taylor. I thought about being a keeper before, through."

"You like score too much to be keeper," Zhenya says. Sidney laughs, that stupid, endearing laugh of his, and shrugs. 

"Yeah," he says. Some of the brightness goes out of his smile as he turns back to the match. The longing is plain on his face. His hands twitch around the handle of his broom, his wand sticking out of his pocket. Zhenya presses their knees together. It's nothing at all, but Sidney pushes back against him and it feels right.

They win the match by the skin of the their teeth. Knighter collides with Kessel on their grab for the snitch, and she barely manages to keep it in her hand as she rights herself on her broom. Zhenya roars, scrambling to get on his broom to go celebrate. He pauses when he remembers Sidney. He thinks for a fleeting moment to offer him a ride, to put him on the back of the Firebolt like they're in Sidney's backyard, but he tamps down on it. The media would go wild. 

Instead, he shoots fireworks from his wand into the air, the sizzling hiss of them their own kind of congratulations. Sidney hugs him, sending the next wave of fireworks shooting off towards Flower, and Zhenya lets his wand drop to hug him back. 

\---

Sidney cooks food without magic. Zhenya watches him, eyes wide as Sidney cuts vegetables with his hands and puts them into a pot on the stove. There burner thing glows red under the pot, and it takes _forever_ for the water to boil. Zhenya had offered to make lunch, but Sidney had waved him off and insisted on doing it himself. 

"How you make water hot?" Zhenya asks. Sidney laughs.

"Electricity," he says. Zhenya makes a face. It sounds made up, even more so when Sidney tries to explain it to him, but Sidney isn't really good at lying and he looks sincere. "I was raised as a nomaj for eleven years. It's been awhile, but I can get used to it again."

Zhenya's chest feels tight. It's been months and Sidney's tutor has been dismissed. They still go flying together, and Sidney still goes to the matches and is still their captain, but his magic lays dormant inside him. Zhenya feels helpless. Every problem he's had has been fixable by magic, his own or someone else's but this is… nothing. No one can do anything at all. 

"That what you want?" Zhenya asks. He tries to imagine the Stormers without Sidney ever again, tries to imagine Stonewall itself without Sidney there, and it makes him ill. Sidney prods at the vegetables in the pot, face turned away, and Zhenya thinks, _oh_.

"It doesn't matter what I want," Sidney says after a moment. "I want to win the World Cup, and I want to teach kids to fly, and I want to get back on the pitch. But-" He does something to the stove and the burner thing slowly fades back to black. "If I don't learn how to accept this now, I'll just drive myself crazy."

"You Sidney Crosby," Zhenya says. Sidney turns to face him, leaning back against the counter. He looks so, so sad, and Zhenya's heart aches. "You force flying school to make new class for first years, you force Quidditch Committee to make new rules for junior teams." Sidney's eyes close, his broad chest rising and falling so slowly. "You want to be nomaj, you be nomaj. But you quit because afraid? You not Sidney Crosby."

"Alright," Sidney says. He doesn't open his eyes, doesn't move, but Zhenya knows what Sidney determined looks like. "Alright."

When he goes home, Zhenya floos Zhernakov again and asks for help. It takes some wheedling, some promises to make appearances at a few flying classes in the future, but eventually Zhernakov caves. Zhenya has no idea what Zhernakov plans on doing, has no idea if it will work, but he's got to try something.

A week later, still stung and sore from a loss to the All Stars, Zhenya apparates Sidney and himself to Koldovstoretz. He feels at home as soon as the gray walls of the front hall come into focus. He had no love for classes when he was young, had often been late and spent time in the back of the classrooms napping, but this is the place that turned him into the wizard he is today and he'll always owe it more than he can give.

The sound of voices speaking Russian makes the old homesickness in Zhenya's chest spark. He'd left for Canada as soon as he'd graduated, ready to play for the Stormers. He hadn't thought he'd miss the metal smell of Russian magic in the air or the familiar hand painted portraits of important wizards through the ages. He takes a moment just to take in being _home_ before leading Sidney through the halls. 

"This is where you went to school?" Sidney asks. He cranes his neck to look around, hands tucked firmly into his pockets. A group of children streak past them, robes trailing the ground, and Zhenya wonders how he had ever been so small. 

"Is best school," Zhenya says with pride. Sidney laughs and it echoes off the walls. "I'm show you pitch when we done with Zhernakov. I'm learn on tree trunks, not little brooms." There's pictures of him at maybe seven years old, hands wrapped around a thick branch of an oak tree twice his size. It had left splinters in his palms and had been awful to maneuver, but it had been his first taste of what Quidditch could be. It had taken him weeks of training with Sidney to get used to the brooms when he'd first gotten to Canada, but he remembers those days fondly.

Zhernakov's office is the same now as it had been when Zhenya had last been in it, all dark reds and cherry wood that breathes old magic. Zhernakov himself hasn't changed. He embraces Zhenya warmly, the bristles of his beard scraping against Zhenya's forehead. He's tall and lean, his back hunched under the pale brown of his robes. When he pulls back, Zhenya's head barely reaches the end of his beard. Next to him, Sidney looks like a child. 

"You look well," Zhernakov says, settling in behind his desk. He gestures towards the high backed chairs across from him and Zhenya and Sidney settle into them. "You should visit more often."

"My schedule's always full," Zhenya says guiltily. Zhernakov gives him a knowing look and Zhenya sinks down further into his chair. Zhernakov waves his hand, the half dozen rings on his long, bony fingers glowing orange in the firelight, and warmth flows down into Zhenya's throat. Sidney squirms next to him uncomfortably. The translation spell is one Zhenya had never gotten the hang of, no matter how desperately he needed it in the early days. 

"Hello, Sidney," Zhernakov says. He turns his piercing gray eyes onto Sidney, folding his hands on his desk. "I have an idea for returning your magic. I can't promise it will work, but there's no harm in trying. Zhenya." Zhernakov gestures to the bag in Zhenya's lap and Zhenya scrambles to open it. 

He pulls out the freshly bought pensieve and places it carefully on the desk. It hadn't been easy to find one without a previous owner, had been even harder to buy it, but Zhenya is nothing if not bullheaded. Sidney looks at it dubiously as Zhernakov does… something to it. Mind magic isn't taught in Koldovstoretz and Zhenya knows himself well enough to know that he wouldn't have paid attention anyway. 

"I've never used one of those before," Sidney says. His voice sounds strange under the translation spell, his accent changed. Zhernakov smiles and pulls his wand from his robes. 

"Most haven't," he says. "It's not something for those with happy minds. If I could, I would like to remove the memory of the match you had your fall in." Sidney tenses. Zhenya places a gentle hand on his knee, squeezing. 

"I trust Zhernakov with my life," Zhenya says. Zhernakov smiles, his withered old face pleased. "He won't hurt you, Sidney. I promise." It's so strange to speak so easily to Sidney, all of the words he wants easily available. Sidney's staring at him, eyes a little wide, and Zhenya wonders if he thinks it's strange as well. 

"Okay," Sidney says after a long, silent moment. "Just- just don't go looking through my head, please." Zhernakov smiles gently. Zhenya hadn't lied. Zhernakov had led him through dark times in his life, had helped get him into the North American League when Zhenya had thought he'd never get the chance. He really should visit more often. 

Zhenya leaves the room when he's asked. He stands outside the large oak door, listening carefully for Sidney's voice. A few children pass him, and one stops to shyly ask for an autograph. Zhenya charms one of the broomstick bristles he's taken to carrying into a miniature version of his signature broom and writes his name on its tiny handle. The kid holds onto it tightly, beaming and scampering off to join his friends. 

Worry builds inside Zhenya the longer he's separated from Sidney. He paces, running through plays in his head until he can't anymore. He's in the match tomorrow, but it's hard to focus on it. Sidney, he thinks wryly, would be so disappointed in him. 

Eventually, the door swings open. Zhenya does his best not to look too anxious, but the look Zhernakov gives him lets him know he's failed. Sidney's staring at a small vial, his lips parted and his eyes wide. White vapor swirls inside it, bouncing off the glass and reaching out towards the warmth of his hand. His memory. 

"I think," Zhernakov says, carefully shrinking the pensieve and handing it over to Zhenya, "that you might want to bring Mister Crosby home now. The children look forward to seeing you in their flying classes." 

"Thank you," Zhenya says. He helps Sidney to his feet, apparating them back to Sidney's house. He shakes his head to clear the last of the translation charm from his ears. "How you feel?"

"What?" Sidney asks. He looks around, his eyes widening as he takes in the familiar furniture. Zhenya sighs and steers him toward the couch. 

"Sit. I'm make food." Zhenya puts his hand over Sidney's mouth when Sidney tries to protest. He pulls out his wand and puts together a few sandwiches. Later, he'll make Sidney eat real food. "Eat. How you feel?"

Sidney stuffs half a sandwich in his mouth, still holding the vial with his memory tightly in his other hand. His cheeks puff out endearingly. Zhenya wants- he wants to kiss Sidney's forehead where he's broken, wants to hug him, wants to take him flying every day for the rest of their lives. It's not a new thought, but the urge is nearly overwhelming. 

Sidney Crosby is the strangest creature Zhenya has ever met, but Zhenya has always loved strange. 

"Zhernakov said something about psychology before he took this out," Sidney says once he's swallowed, shaking the vial. 

"Psycholo-" Zhenya stops midway through the word. It's got too many parts his tongue doesn't want to wrap around and he doesn't know what it means anyway. 

"It's who the nomaj go to when there's something wrong with your head," Sidney says. He shrugs, twisting the vial between his fingers. The memory swishes around inside, translucent and alive. "There's this thing about mental barriers that Zhernakov read about and how it can stop people from doing stuff." He laughs a little and Zhenya leans in closer to him. "All this time, it was in my head."

Zhenya frowns, running the words through his mind. Of course the memory was in Sidney's head. It's where memories belong. Sidney pops the cork on the vial and the memory flies out, disappearing like fog into the air. Zhenya sucks in a sharp breath. That memory is gone now, gone forever. 

"Sidney-"

Sidney pulls his wand from his robes and gives it a sharp flick. Sparks, vibrant and golden, erupt from the end, dancing in front of them for a moment before fizzling out. Something warm and pleased and happy takes hold of Zhenya's heart and _squeezes_.

"Your magic back," Zhenya says. He launches himself at Sidney and pulls him into a hug, crushing Sidney into his chest. Sidney laughs again, but this one is bright and stupid and so happy that Zhenya can't help laughing with him. 

"My magic's back," Sidney says, his breath warm against Zhenya's cheek. He sounds awed. "Thank you."

"You did, Sid," Zhenya says. He cups his hands around Sidney's cheeks, shaking him a little. Sidney grins, crooked and wonderful and Zhenya kisses him because he can't not.

Sidney pulls him in tighter, arms curling around Zhenya's back, and they kiss until Sidney moves, sending them both sprawling onto the floor. Zhenya laughs again. Sidney's magic is back and he's so near and the world is righting itself to where it's supposed to be.

"Geno," Sidney says, rolling onto his side. His robes have come undone at the front and his hair is messy in the back, and Zhenya wants to stay here forever, basking in this glowing joy. "Let's go flying." 

Or that, he thinks wryly, even as he summons their brooms. He can be happy with that.


End file.
